Category Archives: CLARA

How Clara sleeps depends on the sculpture. Not those in the Hepworth, she is safe from them, but the ones that keep appearing in the street. They make the wind different. Like tonight. There is a new dull steel shape … Continue reading→

When people ask why she came north Clara always says on impulse, but whenever she is awake this time of night she unpicks all the little bits in her decision: retiring two years early, selling the house at the top … Continue reading→

On the bottom deck of the Routemaster nightbus Ed Balls, moonlighting as the conductor, is embarrassed to see her again, the last time had been at his wedding, Clara regrets they’ve lost touch but just knows from his eyes that … Continue reading→

Clara pretends this is not the time and that she has not been lying awake this long. She thought that when she retired she would sleep later, but like everything else sleep seems to recede with age. The only thing … Continue reading→

Clara looks outside. She cant help a glance. No sign. All is quiet in Burgage Square. Clara says under her breath, ‘Plan. Section. Elevation.’ It must be easy to draw a tree – a line, then a circle or a line … Continue reading→

Clara wants coffee but makes green tea. Since she stopped work, she has come to hate the gritty knife scrape on toast, so warms butter in the microwave and dangles her honey on from a teaspoon. At her table by the … Continue reading→

Rilke. Clara knows from her Wakefield Libraries badge that girl’s name is Lyn but she will call her Rilke. Rilke. Lyn a beat, Rilke a pulse. This must be her day off. She spends anxious hours leaning at her window … Continue reading→

Clara pulls the toaster out from the wall, the coffee grinder, the juicer, the knife block, chasing crumbs from the worktop with a dish cloth, tea towelling the surfaces dry. She repositions the appliances precisely, admires them, all black, brand … Continue reading→

When Clara wants a cigarette she walks up out of Burgage Square, through the car park between the back of Quest and the huge red brick wall of Switalskis out onto Westgate, where she turns right. This morning her head … Continue reading→

Clara sees them from the top of Back Lane, five silhouettes through the gloom under the railway bridge against the sun glare, almost see through like angels, then the orange of Mrs Osman’s scarf, the turquoise and red of the … Continue reading→

In Create they perch on the bright chairs and the Osmans seem impressed by her knowledge of the Somali family system: raas the family gathered, qaraabo close relatives, jilib a sub-clan, reer a clan, qolo the tribe. She asks, where … Continue reading→

Clara wants a cigarette so sets off away from the shops, wants to scratch the fronts of her legs, so walks fast to burn out the itching, tugs at the stupid lace collar of the shirt she put on to … Continue reading→

A shaved head in a yellow jacket stops Clara, ‘You can’t go that way.’ ‘Why not?’ A huge motorised green screen is being moved across the end of St. Johns North. ‘They’re filming.’ ‘What?’ ‘A film, come on.’ Soil on … Continue reading→

There is a market in Wood Street. There seems to be a market in Wood Street every other day, Clara wonders why they don’t just move into the empty shops. All the usual market stuff; cakes and jams, street food, … Continue reading→

Clara screws up her eyes from the window glare of an empty shop, ‘Well nowadays I just potter about.’ ‘Before this potting about.’ ‘I’m retired.’ Mr Osman raises his eyebrow. She uses the stock, ‘I was a civil servant.’ He … Continue reading→

While Nur Osman takes Xoriyo to find a toilet, Clara thinks back to the woman from Wakefield City of Sanctuary accosting her in the street. The way the she kept touching her thin wire glasses and her tight prim lips … Continue reading→

Whenever Clara puts on music, she wonders why she so rarely does, and how she could possibly forget the pleasure of sound filling a room. Dvorak. Slavonic Dances. She whips the table cloth around like a bullfighter’s cape, snaps the … Continue reading→

Actually, Clara thinks, there is a rush. Everything happens at the wrong time. The girl’s painted fingernails. Her own mottled hands, make up clogged pores. The absurdity of their skin ever touching in the ways she has imagined. Everything happens … Continue reading→

Clara passes Lyn another kitchen towel. The girl’s a mess of snot and make up and hair and wracks of sobs, trying to speak but her mouth stays open stuck, will not shape words, blonde strands plastered to her lips. … Continue reading→

Lyn has left the strainer on the table among tear-sodden clumps of kitchen towel. For a second Clara thinks of running after her but loses herself staring into the iceberg of tissue, plays pavlova blanket Mont Blanc tricks on herself, … Continue reading→

Clara tumbles the crisps and nuts, all except the cashews, back into their bags, folds the mouths down and snaps them with plastic clips. She puts the vegetables in the crisper, the spices alphabetically on their rack, she notices the rice … Continue reading→

Clara sits in her flat with all the lights on. Clara sits in her flat with just her reading lamp on. Clara walks about the flat with all the lights off. She tries with just the bathroom mirror and hob … Continue reading→

There is no one at the desk at Angel Lodge. A few people stand around she makes instant judgements: Hair skin eyebrows, Kurd: ‘Do you know where the Osman family … live, are staying, Nur Osman?’ A shrug. Sari skin … Continue reading→

After the long prison wall, she avoids the dank bridge and goes up Westgate, past the station entrance, the family court, the art house, Clara is just about to cross the road when she hears something from the Orangery garden. … Continue reading→

They are both running. The lock takes for ever to click, Clara feels the boy lean over her for the door. ‘No you stay here.’ He is past her, ‘No, you, what if she falls?’ ‘Exactly!’ Clara stands. If the … Continue reading→

They are still sitting out there on the balcony as if he has just dragged her from the sea. Clara is too tired for Dvorak so puts on Kind of Blue. She saw Miles Davis play in Washington, 1973. All … Continue reading→

Clara lies awake listening to the statue split the wind into footsteps and wondering whether anyone still sells Lettraset. She will look in the morning, there is bound to be somewhere she can buy hedges, little groups of people, office … Continue reading→